“Well, certainly not compared to this Tab Templeton. He was a fucking behemoth,” Hennessey said. “I remember watching him years ago in the Olympics with this kind of morbid fascination. So when the file came across my desk, it was a real blast from the past. That poor son of a bitch.”
Hennessey beckoned Clyde forward and into the restaurant. Clyde felt a little edgy walking past the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign so cavalierly. But Hennessey, as if he owned the place, led him straight back to a large booth in the corner, which could have seated the whole Dhont family. They drew a few stares as they sat down—not because Clyde was semifamous as a wrestling and political failure, and not because Hennessey was a stranger wearing a suit, but because only two of them were taking up a whole booth. Hennessey folded up his long overcoat and laid it out on the orange vinyl seat, and Clyde, knowing that the corner of the restaurant would be cold, just kept his parka on. Hennessey corralled the table’s ashtray and set up a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter in front of him, as if this fuel would keep him from freezing in the chill draft pouring down off the big picture windows. “I like this place,” he said, looking around. “Everyone is a real human being here.”
Clyde did not really understand what Hennessey was talking about; it seemed like an odd thing to say. “They are pretty good with hash browns here,” he said.
“Good! I’ll keep that in mind,” Hennessey said. He seemed sincerely pleased, as if this were the best news he’d heard all year. “Anyone can flip a burger, but hash browns are a black art,” he said.
“I’ve fried up a few potatoes down at the jail,” Clyde said, “and always found it hard to achieve the right balance.”
“I’m shanty Irish. A south Boston boy—you’ll hear the accent when I get excited or drunk,” Hennessey said. “We know potatoes. But most of us still can’t make a decent slab of hash browns to save our lives. We can boil stuff like nobody’s business, but frying is too exotic.”
The waitress came around with an insulated pitcher of coffee. Hennessey thanked her warmly and poured mugs full for both Clyde and himself. Both men reached for the mugs as if they were life preservers in the wintry North Atlantic. “Didn’t realize your duties extended to cooking,” Hennessey said.
“It’s a long story,” Clyde said.
“Anyway, you’ll be out of the deputy business—when?”
“Christmas Day at four in the afternoon.”
“Shit. That bastard stuck you with the Christmas Day shift?”
“I volunteered,” Clyde said, “since my wife isn’t home anyway.”
“So that the others could spend it with their families. What a mensch,” Hennessey said. “What happens for you after Christmas?”
“Try to live on Desiree’s combat pay. I’ve got some real-estate things going. We’ll find a way,” Clyde said.
“You know, I’m tremendously impressed that I wasn’t able to sucker you with the prospect of an FBI job,” Hennessey said. “I did sucker you for a couple of weeks there, didn’t I? But not for long—which makes it all the more impressive.”
“I guess you did have me going for a while,” Clyde said, taken aback by Hennessey’s frankness. The man used speech in a completely different way from anyone Clyde had ever known. People around here spoke like the Nishnabotna in February, when it was all jammed up with ice, and the movement of water underneath was only suggested by occasional groans and pops. Hennessey spoke like a free-running stream. Like a man whose speech was a tool of his trade, a tool he’d spent many decades perfecting.
“Thought I was playing you like a fish,” Hennessey said, “and then I get this.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a sheet of lined paper covered with Clyde’s neat handwriting. He pulled a pair of half glasses out of his other pocket and slipped them on. “I am withdrawing my application to the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he read, “as I do not think it would advance my personal goals at this time.” He looked up over the glasses into Clyde’s eyes. Hennessey had emerald-green eyes in an otherwise colorless and withered face. They could be very cold and penetrating eyes, Clyde realized. “Now, that’s an interesting sentence. ‘Advance my personal goals.’ What does that mean, Clyde? Other than the obvious stuff like raising your kid.”
Clyde’s heart jumped to a higher gear. He said nothing.
“Does it have anything to do with Fazoul and the Iraqis? I need to know.”
Clyde felt his chest getting all tight. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down.
“Clyde, you’re scaring me,” Hennessey said. “Cool it with the emotions for a second. I want to know what are your intentions regarding those fucking ragheads and their botulin factory.”
Clyde looked out the window and started grinding his teeth.
“Yesterday,” Hennessey said, “you spent an hour and a half on the telephone with a JAG lawyer at Fort Riley, drawing up a last will and testament. True? You don’t have to speak. Just nod.”